The Writing Prompt Boot Camp

2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 27

Before today’s prompt, I just wanted to say thank you to Poetic Asides regular Cara Holman for featuring me on her Poet Showcase series. It’s really an honor, and I always feel so lucky to be associated with so many talented poets. Click here to read the post.

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “The Trouble Is (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of the poem, and then, write the poem. Example titles may include: “The Trouble Is You,” “The Trouble Is Figuring Out How to End This Poem,” or “The Trouble Is What I’m Always Finding.”

Here’s my attempt:

“The Trouble Is Fire”

It strikes and burns
everything
that gets in its
way before it
finally stops
leaving nothing
but ash and some
burnt memories.

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317 thoughts on “2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 27”

is it can get trapped in the brushfire of the mind
and never reach the cascades of the heart; fattens
the spirit even as the soul is exercised; sometimes it cranks
up like party music and you awaken, startled, starving;
invites you to go outside, walk in the rain, then you bump
into him but your hair is a hot mess; it sticks to your
stomach like egg yolk on a fork; wheels your name
day and night even though the old voices that came
along for the ride no longer have a good sound.

See, it’s already
started in the title.
The verb bites and
wants word but
words takes the reader
to microsoft and then
in the future
someone separates
micro and soft
and either can’t
decipher the archaic
reference or thinks,
“How Quaint.”

Then add a barrel
of monkeys running
off the page and Word
giggles “trite” or “over-
used” but still jumps
around the page like
a barrel of “bytes”
or “binary allies?”
I resort to the rad
trouble: words.

After twenty-five years teaching students how to reason
so they could use their brains to think straight and head
off arguments anyone might raise about their logic and
thereby write a decent argumentative paper I could read,
you’d think that I could help my son discern his breaks
in reasoning, but I cannot. Worse, I can at times trace
the crooked trail his thinking took and I will empathize
with his conclusion, throwing my hands in the air and
telling him, “Well, Jeff, I have to say that makes sense.”

Often, facilities where he’s lived had a system of points
a resident must earn in order to pass from lower levels
to more privileged ones and thereby gain such rights as
going outside alone or off the grounds without an escort.
But Jeff (he was not Emperor of the World as yet) had
problems earning points for doing things like brushing
teeth and hair or keeping his room neat or getting lined
up when it was time to take medications. While visiting
once, I suggested he just get up join the queue. “Mom,”
he said, “I would have to stand there in line when I can
just as easily wait until there are only one or two people
left. Meanwhile, I am able to rest in a comfortable chair.”

As to his more exotic concepts, like the way he thinks
people die and rise again as they want, simply asking
God if they may, a song we sang this Sunday at church
made me pause to reconsider, giving as it did a source
for his thinking process as skewed as it might appear:
“ We come to share our story. We come to break the
bread. We come to share our rising from the dead.”
The church my son grew up in includes the doctrine
of the resurrection of the dead when the world ends.
With his current status as the Emperor of the World,
Jeff finds it reasonable that God who outranks us all
might well extend that privilege earlier if petitioned.

There are other instances like when he objects to meds
because he says the pharmaceutical companies simply
keep producing variations on medications accompanied
by lines and lines of side-effects simply to make money,
and having listened to the monotone voice in TV ads
speaking fast as an auctioneer and spewing ugly words
like nausea, diarrhea, suicidal thoughts, hallucinations
… the latter two the very problems the drug is claimed
to cure, I can only say the Emperor’s logic is not wrong.

Arbitrary limits,
On something non-existent,
Takes no talent, no finess.
Limiting nothing takes
More than care,
Requiring belief
That increments from
One mind equal
Production possibilities.
How can seconds become
Minutes or hours, when
Only days/nights exist in time?
Does breathing count
As a measuring stick, or pulse,
When clocks don’t function?

Dreams are the units of measurement
spanning to futures unattained.
Inches of hope tend to grow
as I regain my footing,
and shrink as I remain the same.
The trouble with dreams is
they don’t care what is real.
They’re my unchained
forums of wannabe ideals
absent from limitations
my generation inherited.
You point your accusations
at my stride, as if my flaws
aren’t already exhibited.
I’ll keep inviting your riots
against my progress,
for soon your righteous pride
will lead you to a sinful fall.
The trouble is I can’t stop dreaming
and I don’t mind being in trouble at all.

I wrote this poem last year at the end of the April Challenge. It had been a time of extremely intense connections as a poetic community. This year there are many new voices and “The Street” has been bustling sometimes with so many poems that it has been difficult to comment. There has also been a new platform, which I for one, consider as the kindest statement I can make – a “mixed blessing.” Nevertheless, I thought that I would share the poem from last year as a reminder to all of the sense of collective community that so connected us one to the other and to include those who are now new voices to understand how wonderful this community can be… Thank you Robert for another wonderful April… and thank you to all .. the talent has exploded here and I am thrilled to stand in the center watching the sparks shoot like comets across the night sky. We are not at the end – but we are close – Goodnight to all 🙂

After Leaving Here – I Will be There – April 2011

I wrote the other night to all that I could possibly include
knowing somehow that this year this ending April would be a difficult interlude
Wrapped in the moon-silvered and glimmering
The sense of collective community a chorus of one voice
Fragmented and in the street still simmering
Whispered on the air, drifting in the soft night breeze
The comfort of the muses rising from each to other singing
Sweet, painful, searing lyrics to each other seizing every soul
Until the street was emptied and all that remained
Were these wispy whispered fragments, shimmering with soft light
As each lingering poet walked ostensibly alone in the darkened lonely night
As the pavement glistened, sole foot-falls rising from the ground
To meet with the others for leaving this place although one bound
Never is actualized, never does occur – once Muses meet and coalesce
Forever vanished, extinguished that existential torment on the street that is a living tapestry

Good night to all …in the knowledge that creativity is a brilliant speck of an incomprehensible vast collective universal oneness…

The Trouble is me
By
Arrvada
I’ve hurt
I’m hurt
You ask what you’ve done
How can I explain the fault
Wasn’t all you?
How can I tell you
The trouble is me
I’ve changed
I’ve grown
I now see all of you.
You are just the same
The same you’ve always been
You haven’t changed
You haven’t done anything
It’s all me
I now see all of you
The trouble is me
Cause I can’t accept you

I hear your anger swelling up
In flinty voices, and I cringe
As they grate against my skin,
No matter how hard I have
Tried to thicken it. The trouble is
That trouble is, and drowning
In the thick despair of it,
You grabbed hold of a
Splintering board called bitterness,
Hoping it would keep you afloat
Until something better came along,
But the toxic shards entered
Your panting bloodstream,
And now I’m afraid you couldn’t
Let go if you wanted to, which you don’t.
I hope you will someday. The trouble is
That trouble is, and we don’t really know
What to do with it, but next time
You’re drowning, grab onto me.
I’ll do my best to keep us afloat
With a smile and a prayer.

Blame, cast like stones against the body
of an adulteress, instead of at the source.
Lust forms within. Lust for power. Lust for
gold. Lust extolling self above others.
If we truly desire peace, prosperity, equality,
respect. If we truly truly desire good–out there,
externally, we must seek it first inside.

The trouble is I can’t breathe
The breathe is somewhere
But not in me.
It hovers outside my body
Teasing, taunting
Saying it will come in but
Does not.
Oxygen is what I need
But my bronchial tubes
Just do not like dust and pollen
Trees and grasses,
Pets and anything particulate.
They wince, shiver at every breath
Too many chemicals in the air,
Too much of everything
But pure, sweet air.

The trouble is I desire fortune and fame.
The prize eludes, just beyond my fingers.
Oh, why not satisfied with affairs mundane?
The trouble is I desire fortune and fame.
What idealistic fantasy of success is to blame?
This ache for celebrity in my head lingers.
The trouble is I desire fortune and fame.
The prize eludes, just beyond my fingers.

A thousand pieces, most of them blue.
Sky and sea meeting at the horizon,
With lupines, borage and bindweed
In the foreground meadow.
A blend of hues; a mix of tones;
A merging of nuances.
Commitment and persistence
And I’m almost done, but not quite.
The last bit is missing…
The face of the woman in the billowing blue dress
At the corner of the frame.
The 999 pieces of the story are incomplete.

Like right now when I close my eyes
and will the words to come,
but instead I’m more interested in the noises
within the quiet walls and the world outside –
the fizzing Dr Pepper can on my desk,
the wind as it howls, breathes heavily
down my neck to get my work done,
the cat curled up in the corner snoring,
how much better I’d feel myself if I slept,
the laundry that didn’t get done, the book I want to read,
the e-mail I just had to open because the
knowledge that I have mail stares at me
like a flashing neon sign, a beacon in the night,
it’s all an unavoidable pull.

The Trouble with Caring
I feel everything
and try to share your pain
often forgetting
suffering is tempered by joy
The trouble with caring
Is not that I’m here for you
The trouble with caring
is not giving you support
The trouble with caring
is attempting to obliterate
your moments of misery
and ultimately dulling your joys
– Lyn Michaud

The trouble is there
is so much to do
and the time goes
by like water over
Niagara Falls and
the clock keeps
ticking though I
haven’t even seen
today’s poem or
finished my email
or edited that
manuscript or
woken in time
for breakfast
or smiled at the
day even once
and soon the
night comes
slipping over all
and the day folds
into an accordion
as I try to catch
up sneaking words
onto the screen in
the early hours and
forcing my head down
onto the pillow before
the day opens her
curtain and my mad
dash begins again.

She’s impossible
A harsher mistress
You can’t imagine
Demanding to a fault
She will make you
Give up friends
And family and live
In poverty and isolation
Without a thought
For your well-being

And you may chase
Her from your
Life believing you
Are better off without
Her but eventually
A time will come:
Your dog will die
Your wife will leave
Or it could be you just
Can’t sleep
She will call to you

Sexy, sultry as any siren
You will not be able
To deny the itching
In your palms
Until you sit down
With a pen
Or a laptop
And answer her
At last
But by then
She will be out
For blood.

the trouble with writing prompts
is that they can inspire
lead you down foreign roads
of brain grooves unmapped
navigating rapids and canyon
surfing verbage as you hold your arms
straight out for balance
…and fall anyway
because the heart does not
understand gravity
and sometimes the poem
skips a few steps
and skids onto the paper
shocked to find
itself breathing

THE TROUBLE IS I DON’T KNOW
(Song Lyrics)
—————————————————————-
The trouble is I don’t know what we’re doing;
The trouble is I don’t know what to say;
The trouble is I know there’s trouble brewing,
Do you want me to stay or go away?

The trouble is I don’t know what I’ve done wrong;
The trouble is I haven’t got a clue;
The trouble is I can’t fix things with this dumb song;
Please tell me what it is I need to do.

The trouble is I don’t know what I don’t know;
The trouble is I don’t know what I should;
The trouble is I know where this may all go;
And you can’t say good-bye holds any good.

The trouble is I don’t know how to end things;
The trouble is I don’t want things to end;
The trouble is I fear what tomorrow brings;
And I want you as a lover and a friend.

like “plate” to mean
“a color illustration”
and know soon
no one will know of
huge books, elephant-folios
with brilliant pictures.
These impending people
will only think of
dishes, or by then
perhaps even platters
will evaporate. So the
trouble is when I write
“plate,” I see food
hovering midair in a world
for which I have no words.

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a poem in the style of a nursery rhyme or “clapping rhyme”. I decided to do a jump-rope type of rhyme (or my impression of one, anyway – I was never got the hang of jumping rope). And since today is my ____ birthday, I of course focused on getting older.

The Trouble Is Aging

The trouble is, aging’s not great for the old,
the “golden years” aren’t always, if truth be told.
But if you feel younger, then maybe there’s hope,
if you say this rhyme with us while you skip rope:

A is for AARP – yes, I’ve got my card,
B is for Bingo, a game that’s not hard.
C is for Cholesterol, mine’s way too high,
D is for Depends. we wear to stay dry.
E is for Ensure, to help with nutrition,
F is for False teeth, an unwelcome addition.
G is for Grandkids, who make it worthwhile,
H is for High Blood Pressure – too high by a mile.
I is for IHOP discount, for breakfast some day,
J is for Joints – stiffness won’t go away.
K is for “Kids move in”, sign of lean times,
L is for Laxatives – constipation’s a crime!
M is for Medicare, to pay doctor bills,
N is for Nursing homes, when you’re old as the hills.
O is for Orthotic shoes, they fit to a T,
P is for Prescriptions, too many for me.
Q is for Quilting bees – do old ladies do that?
R is for Retirement – hang up your work hat.
S is for Social Security – that once-a-month check,
T is for tired, all the time – what the heck!
U is Urinary – up all night to pee,
V is for Viagra, if you still make whoopee.
W is for Wrinkles – give you character? A crock!
X is for X-rays, good or bad news from doc.
Y is for Young at heart, which helps you live longer,
Z is for Zesty – skipping rope makes you stronger!

I work with are having babies.
Girls that are barely out of their
teen years. Girls who, before their
bellies began to bloat, walked around
with exposed midriffs and too much
eye makeup. Girls who came to work
hung over. Girls who had glazed eyes
and brazenly told me that if I ever
needed pot to let them know. Girls who
were pulled over, arrested and ended
up in the news blotter of the Burlington
County Times. Girls who are going to be
someone’s mom now. That’s what scares
me the most.

The trouble is the quantity,
After years of writing on the spot
(that was six thousand, more
or less), and four years of
poem-a-day months, and all
the thoughts in between, I’m
swamped. Turn them into
wallpaper? I’ve tried framing,
hand-made books, magazines,
anthologies – success but
all in vain: they keep coming –
wordfloods! ponts of view!
complaints (especially about
the quantity). And I plan to
live to a hundred and two!

P- So, I decided to eliminate it!
M- Really? What? Your mind?
P- No! Trouble!
M- Are you losing your mind?
P -Of course not! But I could if….
M- How? Eliminating me?
P- No, you mindless! Trouble!
M- Are you calling me a trouble again?
P- Not you! “The trouble”! I can eliminate it!
M- Where is it?
P- I told you in the title!
M- What is the trouble doing in the title?
P- Nooo! Not “in” the title. In my mind!
M- I see… but the trouble IS in the title!
P- Yeah… ok, but I was saying it’s in my mind!
M- It shouldn’t be in your mind if it’s the title!
P- But listen…the title just says what is in my mind! Got it?
M- Ahn… is just that?
P- Yeeees!!!
M- So, that’s simple! You could have…
P- Wait… let’s stop this troublesome dialog!
M-…just deleted the title, and you’d have no trouble in your mind!

Poet deleted the title, thus eliminating the trouble.
Mind was saved, free of trouble.
Poet found out that the trouble was not in his mind,
but in the title. Well… that was Mind’s find!

That’s the kind
of mind-numbing
talk that can attack
a poet’s mind!
You can feel it coming
there’s no way back!
It can be in your mind,
or in the title…
The Trouble is vital!

The trouble (with poetry) is…
We are not on speaking terms.
I haven’t written one decent piece.
The trouble (with poetry) is…
She shut me out, call it caprice;
I must have gotten a poetic germ.
The trouble (with poetry) is…
We are not on speaking terms.